


After the rain has fallen

by Anuna



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Be Compromised Promptathon, F/M, Implied Mind Control, Prompt Fill, Prophecies, UST, au under construction, definite potential for romance in the future, fighting against evil, he doesn't really mind, natasha is gonna steal clint, world under construction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-22 00:32:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuna/pseuds/Anuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was sent to steal his swords, but concluded stealing him as well would be a far better deal. fantasy AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the rain has fallen

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as some kind of vague fantasy au idea and then just grew. It's partially inspired by Sting's song "After the rain has fallen" (where I got the title), only I wanted the girl to steal the boy. It went from there and this happened. I could expand this world, but I don't think I'll do it right at this moment - I mostly wanted to post this in time for promptathon (and yes I am filling my own prompt. Hope that's okay).

When she climbed up the wall and entered the chamber through his window, he was sitting on his bed, holding a short blade. The one she saw in its artfully crafted sheath, the one she wanted. The one with symbols of Prophecy. Too good for a mere apprentice, which meant there was more to this man than met the eye. Natasha grinned, for the blade was bared now and waiting. She wouldn't expect anything less of him.

“Came for more of my belongings?”

She crossed her arms, remaining at the spot where her feet touched the wooden floor. 

“It depends on your definition of belongings. Although I am tempted by your knives, that's not all I want.”

Beautiful knives could be sold, but hope could be sold too. Master Fury paid well, and Master Fury was above everything a practical man. If a blade could make a soldier look like a knight, then master Fury wouldn't say no to it, for people loved their knights. And if there is a thing reminding people of Prophecy and giving them hope? 

Hope fueled courage and inspired will. Fake knights were better than none. 

The man twirled the short sword slowly between his fingertips, and the fine work on the handle caught her eye again. It was a fine sword. Sharp and sturdy and beautiful. Just like the man holding it.

The soldier apprentice inclined his head, his heavy tunic hanging slightly open, revealing solid plane of his chest. 

“What kind of definition?” he asked conversationally. She sensed a shift in his tone, she knew he was intrigued. She pulled up the only chair he had in his chamber, to sit opposite him, close enough to allow him a view inside her own tunic as she leaned forward. And he did look. 

“Would you define yourself as your own possession?” she asked, and could see the conflict etched in his features. She knew what the proper answer would be, a warrior apprentice had to pledge his loyalty to the Master. Her question was left unanswered. 

He was too old for an apprentice, which meant that either he or his family had found themselves in dire circumstance. Master Odinson payed his soldiers well, but it wasn't all that he was doing. People were talking, telling stories about men whose eyes have turned to ice, men who didn't recognize their families any more. Natasha was inclined to believe many of those stories were the truth; for mere loyalty guaranteed by an oath wasn't enough for Odinson, like it sufficed for other noblemen of the land. Natasha had seen his knights, running to their deaths empty eyed. They would never provide their names, not even in the moments of their death, and they never failed to obey their Master, even when it was clear they were sent to futile doom. 

There were means to rob someone of their name. Natasha knew that too well. 

“Does someone else own your life, then?” she asked. The soldier's hands were still. 

“Someone owns my debts,” he answered. 

“Debts you would not be able to repay. Or you would? With your mind and soul and name,” she paused when he looked up. There was a flicker of something dark in his eyes. _So he heard about it_.“Or maybe your life?”

“Perhaps,” he said, staring at the blade in his hands. It reflected the faint light of his candles, to small to fill the narrow chamber. But the light was soft and warm, and the night outside was warmer still. 

“Well,” she moved, purposefully, to drag his eyes and attention to her body and her smile. He liked her (and she liked him). “You do own me your life. And if you are a soldier with honor like you imply -”

His eyes flashed anger. “You, obviously have none.”

Natasha smiled. “That is incorrect. I have very little honor. There are things that I honestly appreciate,” she said. She still had his attention, completely, and she could see in the tense set of his shoulders and in lines on his face that he was experiencing conflict. “One of them is life.”

“Is that so,” he said. She looked at the blade in his hands. Steven was a sentimental fool, even if he was a good fighter, and perhaps closest she had to a friend. He believed in the Prophecy, in Tree of Destiny and all the childish nonsense, and he drew the patterns of leaves on the ground countless times in front of her eyes. Would he laugh now, when she stared at those same patterns engraved on a blade, just like the Prophecy spoke?

_A thief of red hair and a soldier whose aim never misses_. She could practically hear Steven's voice in darkness, right next to crackling fire, before James told him to shut up and let everyone sleep. Doing _business_ for Master Fury required a good rest after all. They were no soldiers, the three of them, even though it would suit Steven best. 

“I know a man who was robbed of his name,” she said carefully, and watched his eyes as she did so. 

“Was?” 

She nodded. “The magic wasn't as powerful as necessary. They say his master was wounded when he cast the spell. The spell broke.”

The soldier shifted with unease. “What happened to him?”

“We thought he might go insane. Shadows and nightmares chased him. But his will to live was stronger than anything,” she paused. His will and his best friend. James never spoke in his dreams, never screamed, but both she and Steven would feel when he grew restless in his sleep and wake before James did. It was good that he woke up to familiar human faces night after night. 

“The Red Lord was his Master,” she said and watched as he put two things together in his head. 

“He is an acquaintance of Lord Odinson.”

“Mildly put,” she rose from the chair and walked around his small chamber. She turned to face him, and when she spoke her voice carried slightly more emotion than she was comfortable with. “I think it's more practical not to test if your Master's magic can be overturned.”

“You seem certain,” he rose to his feet and neared her, slightly taller and solid, filling out her space. She didn't wish to push him away. It should have been worrying. 

“I'm certain in just one thing,” she touched the edge of his waistcoat and trailed fingers down, until she looked at the blade in his hands. 

“What is that?” he touched his fingers to her chin and something in her chest shifted. He touched her before, yes, but it was in the fight, pulling her to the side or making her do something to prevent a lethal blow to either of them. 

“Nothing is sacred,” she said quietly. 

“And yet you keep looking at my blade,” he said in sardonic, darkly tinted voice. 

She held his eyes. There was mirth and amused light in there, but no real bitterness, and she wondered what her own were giving away. Not a good thing for a thief and a con artist.

“I know about the Prophecy,” he said. 

“Everyone knows about the prophecy,” she countered. 

“And yet, I am the soldier whose aim never fails, and you are a red haired thief.”

“My friend Steven would like you.”

He smiled and looked even more attractive than he usually did. Steven would know the entire text of the Prophecy, she thought, for there was something about bonding and love. Such a childish thing, she'd usually say to Steven when he recited that bit. There was no room for love in her life. Not right now at least. 

“It's good to hear that.”

“That my friend would like you?”

“That you have a friend,” he said, his voice close to soft. “What happens if I go with you?”

“You will get a life of travels and adventure. And you will keep your name. Hopefully your life as well.”

“And what about the Prophecy?”

She smiled. She tried to keep it too bright and ironic, but it didn't feel that way in her chest. Perhaps there were greater things. Perhaps there should be hope. Steven was _the warrior with a honest heart_ and James _the man tinted with magic_. She was _the thief_ and the man in front of her had _impeccable aim_. That was Four out of Fourteen. 

She didn't believe she was counting and wondering who other ten could be. 

_The thief steals an archer whose name won't be stolen from him_ , she recalled. _And he surrenders his treasure_. Steven would laugh (not unkindly) and call her a believer, but no matter how much she would pretend not to heed him any attention, she was tired. 

She was tired. The lands were scorched, the war was raging, and the darkness all around was settling, inevitably like a nightfall. 

Who, then, would refuse a little hope?

The man offered her his blade, it's shine and finely engraved symbols and heavy sheath. 

“If I am to go with you, I want to know your name,” he said. 

“Natasha,” she answered, the metal heavy in her hands. “I should know the name of a man who I am stealing.”

He laughed at that, and it was a short, honest laugh. “You are stealing a man to preserve his name,” he said. “Then you deserve to know it. It's Clinton. I prefer Clint.”

“Clint,” she repeated. 

“Natasha,” he said. “You better steal me away right now if we are to run away at all.”


End file.
